Tom fell out onto the pavement, looked down and saw grey spots on the paving stones under his hands. Gum. He stood up, realizing it dotted the pavement in both directions. Terror now gripping him completely, he ran up King Street, jumping from side to side, taking small steps, then great bounds, desperate to avoid treading on the gum — white fresh blobs, older blackened ones, clusters of it peppering the areas around bins. He veered towards the road but it was there too, embedded in the bumpy surface, a plague from the mouths of the masses.
He kept going, careering round the top of King Street, back past the Athenaeum, sprinting towards Piccadilly Gardens, images of wide lawns filling his head. Bursting out onto the pavement by the Bradford and Bingley, he knocked over a woman and staggered across the tram tracks. An enormous sonic blast cut through him and hydraulic brakes hissed in anger as the approaching tram was forced into an emergency stop.
Two men dressed as giant kangaroos jumped out of his way, one shouting, 'Easy mate!'Tom raced past, the safety of the lawns now less than fifty metres away. Swerving to avoid a bench he finally lost his footing, shoulder connecting heavily with the pavement, rolling over, knees and elbows bouncing off the paving stones.
The stilt walkers had stopped and were looking down at him. The giant inflatable figures nodded and swayed as Tom, regaining his feet, saw the smear of fresh gum stuck to his knee. As the Samba drums continued in the background, he started to tear off his trousers, a hoarse scream coming from his throat. He had kicked one leg free when the first neon-jacketed police officer arrived. Grabbing Tom in a bear hug he began to repeat, 'Calm down sir, calm down sir, calm down sir,' like some religious mantra as his female colleague radioed for a police car.
Stepping out of the Athenaeum, Sly thought there was something familiar about the forlorn-looking figure across the road. Not just the thin build and beaten up clothes that many Big Issue sellers seemed to have, but something about his stoop and the way he shifted his weight shyly from foot to foot. As he got nearer the man turned round and finally Sly recognized him: one of the beggars who used to hang around Piccadilly station.
Sly's approach to life was simple — you got ahead by keeping other people down. He'd learned it at an extremely early age. The years of bullying and piss-taking he'd suffered through having ginger hair and goofy teeth only ended when he'd picked out a weaker boy amongst his tormentors and jammed a sharpened pencil into his upper arm.
The action didn't gain him acceptance or friendship, just the respect people gave to the school nutter. It taught him the power of extreme and sudden violence and it was why he still carried a Stanley knife to this day.
So now, as he got closer to the man whose beggings he used to tax, the thought of walking past simply didn't occur. A display of his superiority was needed — something to prove to himself that he was above the other person.
The man had fully turned round now, and seeing someone in smart designer clothes approaching, had immediately begun to say, 'Help the homeless sir, copy of the Big Issue?'
Sly stopped and with a sneering smile said, 'Moved up in the world, then?'
His voice made the Big Issue seller freeze and, on recognizing Sly, his stoop seemed to become more exaggerated, the posture of someone used to being victimized. Knowing that wasn't the end of the encounter, he said nervously, 'Sly.' No trace of a smile.
'I need some cigarettes; knock us some change, mate.' Sly held out a cupped hand and clamped his jaw on the lump of gum in his mouth. Its flavour was sharp and lemony, like every other packet he'd taken the other week from the garage in Didsbury. Although the taste was novel to begin with, he'd got tired of its sourness and had flogged most of it to a stallholder in the Arndale market. 'Here, I'll swap you for some chuddy.' He spat the lump out onto the other man's disintegrating trainers.
The Big Issue seller cast his eyes downwards and said miserably, 'You don't control the pitches around here. Leave me alone.'
Sly got his face up close to the other man's and cocked his head to one side. 'Do you want me to cut you?'
The man stepped back. He was still avoiding eye contact, but defeat was written all over him. 'No.'
'Then give me some money,' Sly hissed.
Resignedly the man reached into an inner pocket and produced three pound coins.
'Is that fucking it?'
'I've only sold three copies. It's everything I've got.'
Sly wrinkled his nose in disgust. 'Three copies? With these crowds? I know you're lying, but I'm not going through your stinking coat. I'd probably get fucking lice.'
He plucked the three coins from the man's palm, then produced a thick bundle of twenty-pound notes from his pocket. The man looked at the money, face devoid of any expression.
Slightly irked by the other man's failure to react to his cash, Sly said, 'I'll get the smokes after I've picked up my suit. 'With a mocking smile, he sauntered on down King Street and entered the Armani shop. When the assistant asked if he needed any help, Sly pointed straight to the pale green suit in the window.
Chapter 18
July 2002
The sense of terror only began to subside once they'd fought through the traffic and made it onto the slightly less busy Oxford Road. Sitting in the back seat of the car, Tom shrugged the blanket off his shoulders and whispered, 'Could you turn the fan on, please? It's so hot in here.'
The female officer in the passenger seat immediately did as he asked, then turned round in her seat. 'What's your name, sir?'
The official note in her voice set his nerves off again and the muscles in his throat clamped up. A few minutes later they turned off into the grounds of the Manchester Royal Infirmary, the patrol car driving round to the Accident amp; Emergency entrance and parking in a bay marked 'Ambulances Only'.
Again the female officer turned round. 'Sir, you're being detained under section 13B of the Mental Health Act. As police officers we're required to take you to a place of safety — which is here. We're going to find a psychiatric nurse to check you over and make sure you're OK. Is all of that clear?'
His whole body trembling, Tom was only able to nod.
'Good,' she continued. 'I'll go in first and my colleague, PC Garrett, will stay with you.'
She got out of the car and walked through the sliding doors. A short while later she reappeared, walking back over to address her colleague first. 'Surprise surprise, no one is available.'
As the driver shook his head, she turned to Tom. 'Sir, we're going to have to sit tight for a while. Are you OK back there?'
Tom nodded, his heart still fluttering.
After what seemed like an age, a nurse emerged through the doors and beckoned to the officers.
'Right,' said the male officer, getting out of the car and opening up the rear door. 'Let's put that blanket around you again, shall we? We don't want the nurses getting all excited.' He grinned at Tom.
Tom looked down at his bare legs and boxer shorts as the officer draped the blanket around him. Shakily, he got out of the car and allowed himself to be guided into the foyer. Acutely aware of the entire crowded waiting room watching, Tom felt himself growing embarrassed and knew it was a sure sign he was returning to normal.